


out of the black (into the blue)

by FreshBrains



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Community: femslashex, Dialogue Heavy, Episode: s03e06 Dolce, F/F, First Time, POV Bedelia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-10 00:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12287067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: “He’s gone,” Chiyoh says, voice hollow.“Yes,” Bedelia agrees. “But I remain.”





	out of the black (into the blue)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dexstarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexstarr/gifts).



In the end, Italy is a beautiful place, and Bedelia cannot let Hannibal Lecter or Roman Fell or his lovely wife destroy it in its entirety. Hannibal leaves only an hour past midnight and she knows that if time and darkness is on her side, she has only until dawn before the _polizia_ comes to break down the door.

Until then, she will bathe in the moonlight. Until then, she will drink _Brunello di Montalcino,_ heavy and rust-colored as it swirls in her glass. She’ll stare out the window into the sparkling city lights and wonder if she’s ever been in control, even for a second.

And then, like Nausicaa releasing Odysseus from his golden prison, a beautiful blackbird appears with silver moonlight on her wings.

“He’s gone,” says the blackbird, voice hollow.

“Yes,” Bedelia agrees. “But I remain.”

Cool silence fills the room. A fat drop of water dews off the faucet and plops into the tub, sending a cascade of ripples upwards from Bedelia’s toes.

“We always seem to be the ones who remain,” Bedelia’s pretty bird says.

Bedelia sinks lower into the tub, the water grazing her chin. “Some of us have a choice.”

*

Sometimes, the darkness is not cold. Sometimes, it’s like velvet, folding over her body and cocooning her in sweet relief.

Sometimes, the darkness brings a friend.

*

Chiyoh is all of the most curious parts of Hannibal with none of his charm. She enters the room uninvited, a dark-barreled rifle strapped to her back. It’s an ugly weapon. Bedelia has only held a gun once, and it was cool and gleaming in her palm, something heavy with noir.

“If you’ve come to kill me, at least let me dry off first,” Bedelia says, easing up from the water.

But Chiyoh shakes her head and holds up a palm, motioning for Bedelia to be still. “If I came to kill you,” she says, her voice a beautiful blend of accents, “I wouldn’t have gotten this close.” She takes the fingertip of one leather glove between her teeth and pulls it off her hand in a smooth slide, doing the same to the other.

“An observer,” Bedelia murmurs to herself. Not until Chiyoh appears at the foot of the bath does Bedelia realize her words were soaked in bitterness.

“A guardian,” Chiyoh says stubbornly. She stands straight-backed like a soldier, fingers laced at the small of her back. Florence is cool this time of year, but Chiyoh is dressed for much colder weather in a sleek jacket and thick scarf. Bedelia can only see bits and pieces of her, and the unknown is erotic in the shadows.

“A _captive_ ,” Bedelia bites back, and Chiyoh _lunges_ , but’s an aborted movement, her hands white-knuckled on the edges of the bathtub. There’s a flash of teeth, cruel as fangs. She lets go of the tub, color returning to her slender fingers, and inhales deeply.

“I am held by no one,” she says. She begins to unwind her scarf, the humidity of the bathroom sinking into her skin. “No anymore.”

“Then why,” Bedelia starts, brow arched, “do you carry that gun?”

Chiyoh shrugs. She folds the scarf neatly and sets it on the chair next to the tub. “For rooftops,” she says. “For opportunity.”

“It looks like you missed the greatest opportunity of all.” Bedelia feels her breath quicken as Chiyoh sheds her layers. Her gun leans up Chekov-like against the chair. First her jacket, revealing a structured and basic white blouse. The blouse gives way to a grey camisole and no bra. Her breasts are small and pert, nipples straining at the fabric as she bares herself to the room.

Bedelia knows she should look away, but there’s something about this Florence home with its ornate papering and polished surfaces that lends itself to voyeurism. Chiyoh doesn’t even seem to notice. She sits down, long legs in her sensible grey linen trousers straddling the chairback, and stares at Bedelia.

“You have a plan,” she says.

“Not since the flight,” Bedelia says. Her most recent plan isn’t much. A few syringes full of amnesia won’t buy her the time she really needs, but it will buy her _something_. Every plan she’s had since they set foot in Europe has been ripped to shreds.

“You _need_ a plan,” Chiyoh says. She crosses her arms over the chair back. She’s toned and strong, but thin, a woman who works herself too hard on too little. “He’ll always be one step ahead, so we have to make sure he’s not _two_ steps ahead.”

“Too late,” Bedelia says. “For now, my plan is another glass of wine.”

Chiyoh sighs, her chest rising with the breath. Bedelia finds nearly everything about this woman to be both unbearably erotic and uncomfortably familiar. She stands and grabs the dark bottle from the mantle. Bedelia expects her to pour them two glasses, but she only pours one for Bedelia before sitting back down.

“I used to dream of him,” Chiyoh says quietly, fingers plucking at the loose threads on the chair’s upholstery. “Every night. And now I feel like I can hardly conjure his face.” Her mouth is an insistent line. “I find it soothing.”

Bedelia sits up in the tub. Chiyoh could already see her naked body under the cooling water; Bedelia preferred fresh water to suds. But now her shoulders and breasts are unaltered by the movements and reflections of water. She shivers, but it’s pleasant, especially as Chiyoh watches with glassy eyes.

“I think it means that you’re finished with observing,” Bedelia says, extending a hand, “and are ready to participate.”

Water drips from Bedelia’s hand into the tub. The noise is soft and metallic. Chiyoh stands and slips her camisole over her head with one hand and unbuttons her trousers with the other. Bedelia has never seen a woman undress like that before.

She takes Bedelia’s hand, closing the chasm between them. Bedelia thinks she will slip into the tub, let their bodies glide together, let the water take its course. But instead, she leans down, almost shyly, and touches her lips to Bedelia’s. The kiss is soft, nearly chaste, but the way Chiyoh cups the back of her neck with a biting hint of nail is anything but.

“I’m ready,” Chiyoh breathes, and slides into the water.

*

“I once thought that having someone who was willing to kill for you was terribly romantic,” Bedelia says. She’s still curled up in her midnight-blue robe, hair damp from the bath. A glass of wine sits untouched on the table next to the bed.

Chiyoh sits in the window seat, looking out at the frosty moonlight. Her eyes are like obsidian. “And now?”

Bedelia smiles. “Now,” she starts, eyes sliding shut, ready for sleep to overtake her. “Now, I don’t think anyone kills for anyone but themselves. Killing is an inherently selfish act.”

“I’m not sure I believe that,” Chiyoh says. She’s naked, lovely and unclothed after their bath, and her fists ball at her thighs, grasping for something that isn’t there. “Giving up your life for something cannot be selfish.”

“Sure,” Bedelia says easily. She knows little of Chiyoh’s cold winters and caged men and blood sprayed on the snow, but she knows the root of it all. The root of fear. “But women should be allowed their selfishness, don’t you think? We were so long denied our anger, now who’s to say where that anger is directed?” She can’t remember the last time she’s been truly angry. Prey animals don’t know anger, they only know survival.

Anger requires too much energy.

But Chiyoh is quiet in the window. “That’s oddly comforting,” she says. “I never thought I had the capacity for selfishness.” She turns, a strand of dark hair coming loose from her chignon and grazing her jawline. “So many people have died, Miss Du Maurier.”

Bedelia nods. “I’d ask how that makes you feel, but I’m afraid I’d sound trite.”

Chiyoh huffs out a small laugh. It’s possibly the first time Bedelia has heard that noise coming from the other woman. “It makes me feel tired.”

The bedsheets are ivory with maroon detailing. The silk threads look like blood in the dark. “Then I suppose we should sleep,” Bedelia says, turning down the opposite corner of the duvet.

There’s a moment of hesitation, but Bedelia expects it. “I suppose,” Chiyoh says quietly, almost nervously, face turned away from Bedelia. “I suppose we _should_ sleep.” She eases between the cool sheets, the feather bed dipping beneath her weight.

“Do we,” Bedelia starts, then pauses, wondering how one approaches a partnership such as this. “Do we have a busy day tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Chiyoh says bluntly, hiding a ladylike yawn in the pillow. “But leave it all to me. I’ll take care of it.”

Bedelia hears what goes unsaid— _I’ll take care of_ you.

As the witching hour approaches then slips past, the two women sleep. The gun never goes off, the water never swallows them whole.

And so, their story begins.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Lana Del Rey's "Get Free."


End file.
